


It is At Moments After I Have Dreamed

by CityOfPaperBuildings



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel (Movies)
Genre: M/M, Nightmares, Slight claustrophobia, brief mention of unpleasant procedures
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-19
Updated: 2013-04-19
Packaged: 2017-12-08 23:00:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,510
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/767063
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CityOfPaperBuildings/pseuds/CityOfPaperBuildings
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Winter Soldier woke with a gasp, struggling for air, his body slicked with sweat, heart hammering, the familiar weight of the straps across his chest. </p><p>"Bucky?" asked a voice, dim, as it filtered through sound of the blood pounding in his ears.</p>
            </blockquote>





	It is At Moments After I Have Dreamed

**Author's Note:**

> The title comes from the e.e. cummings poem.
> 
> As always, this work is unbetad so all mistakes are my own.

The Winter Soldier woke with a gasp, struggling for air, his body slicked with sweat, heart hammering, the familiar weight of the straps across his chest. 

"Bucky?" asked a voice, dim, as it filtered through sound of the blood pounding in his ears. 

Bucky? Who was Bucky? He cast his mind about, searching for the answer. Wait, that was him. Yes, he was Bucky. Free from Soviet clutches, he was here, in New York, safe. His brain always took a few second to catch back up to the present after these dreams, so deep did he fall down the rabbit hole.

"Bucky?" the voice, which Bucky now recognised to be Steve's, asked again. 

He turned his head and saw Steve, head propped up on one hand, hair sticking every which way, eyes which could stare through to Bucky's core scrubbed of sleep and full of concern. His other arm was draped across Bucky's chest, warm and solid and, Bucky realised, the cause of his nightmare. 

"Can I help?" Steve asked, rubbing a thumb back and forth along Bucky's collarbone. As much as his instinct was to find solutions to problems presented to him, he knew that sometimes you have to deal with your demons alone. He'd had plenty of those nights himself, waking with a shout as he failed over and over again to grab Bucky's hand.

Bucky couldn't tell him that he'd caused this dream. That a gesture which had meant to be comforting and loving had instead brought up memories of waking up in his stasis tube, being strapped to a table, being injected and electrocuted and cut and probed. If he knew, Steve would sleep on the couch, the floor, anywhere to be in the same room as him without causing these dreams but Bucky wouldn't let him. Getting to hold Steve at night, watch his body finally relax as REM sleep took over and wake up next to him every morning was more than worth these night-time interruptions.

"No, it's fine...I'm gonna take a shower," he eventually replied, kicking the sheets away and swinging his legs over the side of the bed, briefly resting his head in his hand before heading to the bathroom, picking up fresh pyjama bottoms as he did so. 

Steve watched him go and got out of bed too, stripping the sweat-soaked sheets and dumping them in the hamper. He got a clean set out and set about remaking the bed that he still sometimes couldn't believe he shared with his best friend, the love of his life. 

His mind wandered to the man in the shower as he absently folded the sheets with crisp military corners. He'd had Bucky back for almost a year now but he knew he still held certain things back. It was frustrating, not to be let all the way in. The thought would occasionally flit across his mind that Bucky was afraid of how Steve would react to the truth about his past.

Steve could read about it in his file, or rather, the small room dedicated to him such was the level of paperwork generated by his past but he'd promised himself, and later Bucky, that he would never do so, not unless it was absolutely necessary. Steve didn't need to know everything they'd made him do; all he needed to see was in the look in Bucky's eyes when he woke trembling, or shaking, or sweating. It was enough to make Steve's blood boil but he kept it in check because, at the end of the day, they'd won. They had Tasha and Bucky and the Red Room was the weakest it had been in years. 

He smoothed the blanket over the end of the bed and then settled into the arm chair in the corner of the room, picking up his sketch pad and letting his hand draw, his mind free from choice. 

-

Bucky towelled himself dry and pulled on the clean trousers, scowling at his reflection in the fog-free mirror. He never wanted to look at himself after the dreams, afraid of what he'd see in the reflection, whether 'he'd' be back. The one with the dead eyes whose body Bucky found himself trapped in most nights. 

It was his constant fear that one day a deep-seated trigger would go off or somehow the Red Room would reactivate him and he'd turn on SHIELD and the Avengers. He sometimes wondered if this was all a long-game for the Red Room. Let them trust him, have him learn their habits, find their most vulnerable spots (mental or physical) and then one day set him off.

He swallowed the fear down. SHIELD had assured him they'd got all the triggers, his mind was tamper-free, and besides, who better to take down as assassin than a team of superheroes? He had to place his trust in them that they'd stop him, and kill him if necessary.

He'd called them all to a SHIELD meeting room before he moved into the Tower, sat them all down and explained his fears and the promise he was asking of them. Tasha had nodded, understanding perfectly. Clint had cracked a lame joke but pledged an arrow to the eye if it came to it. Thor had promised to lay Mjolnir on his head though it would grieve him greatly to do so. Bruce had given his word that Hulk would do what needed to be done. Tony had cracked an even worse joke than Clint but said he'd push him off the Tower, no questions. Steve though had just looked at him, tears streaming down his face, shoulders hunched, hands fallen in his lap. He'd failed to save Bucky once (hundreds of times in his dreams) and the thought of deciding to remove him from his life was too much to contemplate.

The others had tactfully withdrawn at this point. Well, everyone except Tony who had received a sharp dig in the ribs from Tasha and a look that Tony was sure inflicted a little bit of damage.

Bucky had pulled his chair forward so he sat knee to knee with Steve, wrapping his fingers around Steve's strong hands. 

"I need to know that I will never pose a threat to this country and its people again. I cannot go out into the world without knowing that I am safe. I can't take the chance that I'll hurt innocent people, set off by some random trigger. You have to promise me Steve that if it comes to it, you'll fight me all the way. You won't hold back because I won’t be Bucky at that point. I will be 'him' and 'he' needs to be stopped, at all costs."

Tears had welled in his eyes and his throat had constricted. 

"You can’t capture me, subdue me and have SHIELD fix my head again because I couldn’t bear to wake up and be told how many innocent people I’d hurt or killed. You’d say it wasn’t my fault, that I wasn’t myself, but the memories are still there. And the people would bay for my blood – a former Russian assassin gone berserk on US soil unchecked by Earth’s mightiest heroes? No, I won’t let that happen Steve. Please, if you love me, you’ll agree.”

Steve had stared at him, his eyes still piercing even when bloodshot and he knew, deep down, that he had to do as Bucky asked. He wouldn't let anyone else do it. If Bucky had to leave this world, it would be at his hand. Besides, he'd already thought he'd killed him once. 

Slowly he nodded his assent and Bucky had exhaled shakily, bringing his forehead to rest against Steve's as they both processed the enormity of what they'd just agreed. 

Back in the bathroom Bucky ran his hand over his face and pressed his fingers to the bridge of his nose. He was fine, Steve was fine (‘more than fine’ a mischievous part of his brain thought) and suddenly he was exhausted as the adrenaline wore off and his body realised it was 3.30am.

As he shuffled back into the bedroom, the smell of clean laundry in the air, Steve looked up from his sketch pad. Bucky loved his art and he could watch him draw for hours. Plus there was just something about a man creating beautiful things with his hands, smudges of charcoal on his face that was incredibly attractive. He perched on the arm of Steve's chair and looked down at him, brushing a soft kiss over his lips. 

"What you drawing?" he asked lazily, part of his brain already bringing Steve back to bed. 

Steve looked at the paper in his hands and saw where his mind had wandered. Two left hands overlapping, fingers interlinked, each hand accented by a plain band. It seemed the most natural thing in the world, but now was not the time for such questions.

“Just trying something out,” he replied, putting down the pad and allowing Bucky to pull him back to bed.


End file.
